- Farewell, my girl, and cry no longer,
- I'll be back anon!
- Stay, wait for me, I'll come back running,
- You will see me then.
- The drums are calling,
- the crows are wheeling,
- I'm off to win my lot!
- She dried her tears, a brave smile blooming.
- 'Oh promise me
- You will return ere winter's weather
- Turns to spring again.
- The drums are calling,
- the crows are wheeling,
- be off to win your lot!'
- I promised her, and took the roadway
- to find my luck abroad.
- The road was long, with many turnings,
- But luck was not my lot.
- Though drums were calling,
- and crows were wheeling,
- I could not win my lot.
- So rested I beside a river,
- my sword a pitted wreck,
- when I remembered my dear sweetheart,
- and the promise that I made.
- The drums are calling,
- the crows are wheeling,
- I still had not my lot.
- When winter's weather turned to springtime,
- I rounded my last bend,
- and saw my girl there, waiting for me,
- my road was at its end.
- The drums ceased calling,
- the crows their wheeling,
- I now had found my lot."